For the past several weeks, I've had to keep my house constantly presentable. And cook three meals a day, plus tons of desserts. And make sure my kids are well behaved. And pee with the door closed. And wear a bra at all times.
No, I didn't die and go to hell. I've had company.
For three weeks solid, seriously.
Don't get me wrong. I love it when people come to visit. Especially when they're people I love as much as the people who have been visiting this month. (Y'all know who you are! Holla!) But when company comes in waves, one wave after another, it can be exhausting. Especially when it's all over and you're like, "Holy crap, I can't believe I just had that many people at my house." It's like finishing up a marathon.*
*Or what I imagine finishing up a marathon would feel like. If I actually like, you know, ran marathons.
You wanna know how many eggs I've gone through this month, cooking breakfasts and yummy treats that require eggs? TEN DOZEN. And over a dozen gallons of milk. And two pounds of butter. I'm like Paula Deen.*
*Only minus, like, the diabetes and accusations of racism.
I think I'm getting a preview of what feeding four teenage boys is going to be like. Or what it's like to be the Duggars.
Overall, I've had a good time. But now
Visitors are fattening.
So now that everyone is gone, I have to get my jiggly ass in gear and nix that problematic shoveling-of-treats-into-mouth before I weigh four hundred pounds.
... But I'm doing it braless, damn it.
*Shoutout to those of you who recognized that the title of this post is a line from a Tiffany song and should be sung accordingly. And as for getting it stuck in your head ... you're welcome.